The Child Veterans of South Sudan

It’s been an incredibly quiet show. In recent years, the U.S. military
has moved
onto the African continent in a big
way – and essentially, with the exception of Nick Turse (and Craig
Whitlock of the Washington Post), just about no one has noticed.
In a sense, it’s a reporter’s dream story. Something major is happening
right before our eyes that could change our world in complex ways and no one’s
even paying attention. Of course, in the West, developments in Africa have been
“seen” that way for centuries: that is, little if at all. Think
of it as the invisible continent. There can be no place that has, generally
speaking, been less in American, or even in Western, consciousness until recently.
This is, of course, changing fast in Europe as a wave of desperate immigrants
from fragmenting Africa, dying in startling numbers in their attempts to cross
the Mediterranean in every rickety kind of craft, has made a distinct impression.

The African continent has, in recent years, been aboil, a phenomenon to which
the American military has only
been adding as it pursues its unsettling “war on terror” in
its usual disruptive
ways – and Turse has been Johnny-on-the-spot. His reporting for TomDispatch
and his new book, Tomorrow’s
Battlefield: U.S. Proxy Wars and Secret Ops in Africa, have done much
to give a higher profile to just what U.S. Africa Command has been doing across
that continent. In his most
recent report for TomDispatch from civil-war-torn South Sudan,
he focused in for the first time on the phenomenon of child soldiers and how
the Obama administration, which has denounced their use in countries that are
not its allies, repeatedly looked the other way while a South Sudanese military
it had built used them. It wasn’t a pretty tale. Today, he turns from
U.S. and South Sudanese policy matters to the saddest story of all – those
child warriors themselves and what makes them tick, drawing on his interviews
with South Sudan’s youngest soldiers. Tom

The Child Veterans of South Sudan Want to KnowWill Americans Support Them?By Nick Turse

PIBOR, South Sudan – “I’ve never been a soldier,” I say
to the wide-eyed, lanky-limbed veteran sitting across from me. “Tell
me about military life. What’s it like?” He looks up as if the
answer can be found in the blazing blue sky above, shoots me a sheepish grin,
and then fixes his gaze on his feet. I let the silence wash over us and wait.
He looks embarrassed. Perhaps it’s for me.

Interviews sometimes devolve into such awkward, hushed moments. I’ve
talked to hundreds of veterans over the years. Many have been reluctant to
discuss their tours of duty for one reason or another. It’s typical.
But this wasn’t the typical veteran – at least not for me.

Osman put in three years of military service, some of it during wartime.
He saw battle and knows the dull drudgery of a soldier’s life. He had left
the army just a month before I met him.

Osman is 15 years old.

Young people the world over join
militaries for all sorts of reasons – for a steady paycheck,
to be a part of something
greater than themselves, to measure
up, to escape
their homes, because they crave
structure or excitement
or adventure,
because they have no
better options, because they’re forced
to. Osman joined a militia called the Cobra faction, he told me, after
soldiers from the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, or SPLA – the national
armed forces of South Sudan – shot and killed his father. It seemed
to be the only option open to him. It afforded him protection, care,
a home.

Osman was released from his military service in February and he wasn’t
alone. In recent months, more than 1,700 children have been demobilized
by the Cobra faction. But they’re the exceptions in South Sudan.
Today, about 13,000 other children are serving with the SPLA or the Sudan
People’s Liberation Army-In Opposition, a rebel force at war with the
government, or with other militias and armed
groups jockeying for power in that civil-war-wracked country.

Despite a law prohibiting it, the United States looked the other way while
this went on, providing aid and assistance to the SPLA even as it employed
child soldiers. Year after year, President Obama provided
waivers to sidestep the 2008 Child Soldiers Prevention Act, by which Congress
prohibited the U.S. from providing military
assistance to governments filling out their ranks with children.
It was just one facet of years of support, dating back to the 1980s,
that saw the U.S. “midwife” – as then-chair of the Senate Foreign Relations
Committee John Kerry put it – South Sudan into existence.

“For nearly a decade leading up to the 2011 declaration of independence,
the cause of the nation and its citizens was one that was near and dear to
the heart of two successive U.S. administrations and some of its most seasoned
and effective thinkers and policymakers,” Patricia Taft, a senior associate
with the Fund for Peace, wrote in an analysis of South Sudan last year.
“In order to secure this nation-building ‘win,’ both the
George W. Bush and Obama administrations poured tons of aid into South Sudan,
in every form imaginable. From military aid to food aid to the provision of
technical expertise, America was South Sudan’s biggest ally and backer,
ardently midwifing the country into nationhood by whatever means necessary.”

In the case of child soldiers, waivers
were seen as a necessity when it came to helping build “an accountable
and professional armed force,” in the words of Andy Burnett of the Office
of the Special Envoy to Sudan and South Sudan; that is, an ethical, modern
military that would ultimately eschew the use of children. The results
were just the opposite. The SPLA fractured in December 2013 and was
soon implicated in the commission of mass atrocities and increased recruitment
of child soldiers. The war that has wracked
the country since has been especially ruinous
for South
Sudan’s youth. According
to the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), around 600,000 children
have been affected by psychological distress, 400,000 have been forced out
of school, 235,000 are at risk of severe acute malnutrition, and more
than 700 have been killed during a year and a half of civil war.

Cobra Commander

I meet Osman and a dozen other former child soldiers in an out-of-the-way
town about 170 miles from South Sudan’s capital, Juba. The temperature
seems harsher in Pibor, the air drier and dustier. The days leave you
feeling sapped and shriveled. The sun forces your eyes into a perpetual
squint and the wind blows hot – unnaturally hot, blast-furnace hot.

The
ground in Pibor is parched to the point of cracking. The gray moonscape
has shattered into a spider’s web of crevices, fissures, and clefts
tailor-made for wrenching knees and toppling chairs when you shift your weight.
Then there are the flies. Swarms of flies. Everywhere.
I’ve experienced flies before, flies you can’t keep off your food,
so many that you cease swatting and call a truce; so many that you agree to
share your plate and your fork with them, so much sharing that they might
become part of your meal if they fail to flit away fast enough. But
the flies in Pibor are another matter: relentless, maddening, merciless, eternally
landing on your sweaty hands and arms and cheeks and nose, on the goat meat
being butchered nearby, on your water bottle. Swat one and four more
seem to arrive in response – until about 7:30 pm when, as if by magic, they
simply disappear.

Osman, a local kid, doesn’t seem bothered by the flies or the heat.
Maybe that’s because this life beats the one he was living when he carried
an assault rifle and served as a bodyguard for a high-ranking officer.
It was a typical job for a child soldier in the Cobra faction, a rebel militia
that was – until last year – at war with the government here. Korok,
a baby-faced 16-year-old from Pibor, tells me he did the same thing during
his two years of service. “They gave me a gun,” he says
as his large, lively eyes dart about. “I followed big men around.”

After his father was shot and killed and his mother died of malaria, Korok
found himself alone. His brother was off serving in the SPLA when soldiers
from that force rampaged through the area around Pibor, punishing
the local population – men, women, and children of the Murle tribe – for
an uprising by native son and recurrent rebel David Yau Yau.

A former theology student, Yau Yau once served
as the Pibor county secretary of the South Sudan Relief and Rehabilitation
Commission, a federal agency devoted to the reintegration and resettlement
of refugees and internally displaced persons. He has, however, spent
the last five years forging a career out of anti-government uprisings.
A young upstart from the Murle minority, Yau Yau bucked local elders and ran
as an independent for parliament in April 2010. After losing – he was
reportedly trounced – Yau Yau pursued another path to power, this time through
an armed rebellion with 200 fighters under his command. Just over a
year later, after some skirmishes with government forces and minor acts of
banditry, he accepted
an offer of amnesty and was reportedly made a general in the SPLA.

In March 2012, the SPLA launched a “disarmament campaign” in
Murle areas around Pibor marked, locals say, by rampant atrocities, including
rapes and assaults. Soon, Yau Yau was again in revolt, attracting boys
like Korok and Osman to his South Sudan Democratic Movement/Army also known
as the SSDM/A-Cobra faction. With thousands flocking to his cause and
armed with heavier weapons, Yau Yau launched his first major attack, an ambush
that reportedly killed more than 100 SPLA soldiers in August 2012, according
to the Small Arms Survey, a Geneva-based independent research group.
Battles between the Cobra faction and the SPLA raged through 2013 and civilians
around Pibor continued to suffer.

SPLA court martial documents obtained by TomDispatch attest to the
violence in the area. On July 31, 2013, for example, Sergeant Ngor Mayik
Magol and Private Bona Atem Akot shot and killed two Murle women and injured
a child in Pibor County. (Tried and convicted, they were ordered to
pay “blood compensation” of 45 cows for each woman, sentenced
to five years in prison, and fined 2,000 South Sudanese pounds each.)
In fact, according
to Human Rights Watch, 74 Murle civilians, 17 of them women and children,
were killed between December 2012 and July 2013.

In May 2014, several months after a full-fledged civil war erupted with rebel
forces under the leadership of former Vice President Riek Machar, South Sudan’s
president Salva Kiir and Yau Yau agreed to a peace
pact. Later, the former rebel leader pledged to demobilize children
from his forces.

In January, the Cobra faction began releasing
youths, ages 9 to 17,
some of whom had been fighting for up to four years. In that first demobilization
ceremony, overseen by the South Sudan National Disarmament, Demobilization,
and Reintegration Commission with support from UNICEF, 280
youngsters turned in their weapons and uniforms. Since then, almost
1,500 others have been released.
“These children have been forced to do and see things no child should
ever experience,” said
UNICEF South Sudan Representative Jonathan Veitch. “The release
of thousands of children requires a massive response to provide the support
and protection these children need to begin rebuilding their lives.”

Zuagin tells me he’s 15, but he looks a couple years younger.
His legs seem to be hiding somewhere inside his pants and his shirt is a size
too big. Hailing from the nearby town of Gumuruk, he had served with
the Cobra faction for about two years before being demobilized in February.
Like the other boys, he now spends his days at “the ICC” or Interim
Care Center in Pibor, a compound dominated by a mud-walled church with a crude
likeness of Christ drawn on an exterior wall.

“UNICEF builds and runs the centers with our partners –
they are providing temporary care and shelter to the children released
while we trace their families,” UNICEF’s Claire McKeever explained
to me. “We have also trained local teams of social workers, cooks,
and guards who work at the centers. The children are provided with food,
shelter, items like mosquito nets, mats, and soap, psychosocial support and
recreation activities. This is a two-year program in Pibor, but the hope is
that these centers can become youth centers once the last children return
home.”

The child veterans at the ICC are like kids anywhere. Some are curious
but apprehensive, others wary and insecure; a few of the older ones act tougher
and cooler than they are. They find themselves on either side of that
ethereal adolescent dividing line – some with the softer, rounder faces of
little boys, others beginning to sport the more angular features of young
men; some with tiny, falsetto voices, others speaking in tenor tones.
As a group, they are, however, united by body type: uniformly skinny,
swimming in their button-down shirts or soccer jerseys. Quite a few
sport generic t-shirts emblazoned with the name “Obama.”
Many have energy to burn and a hunger for something more. More than
a few seem to delight in tormenting one of their caretakers, a man who wields
a long thin branch that he brandishes in an attempt to keep the boys in line.
He threatens them with it, swinging it at them, though without much chance
of actually hitting the speedy, young veterans. They, in turn, mock
him and when he sets his switch down, they steal it from him. He tells
me that he likes the boys, that they are good kids. He also asks if
I could help him get any other kind of job, anything at all.

Zuagin was yet another Cobra faction bodyguard who spent his tour of duty
toting a gun to protect an older man with a high rank. “He treated
me well, with respect,” he says, but assures me that life is now much
better than it was with the militia. He has big plans for the future.
“I want to go to school,” he explains. “I want to
be a doctor. We need sanitation. If I’m a doctor, I can
help the community.”

Zuagin has a ready solution to South Sudan’s bloodshed and the seemingly
interminable civil war that goes with it. “To stop the violence,
we need disarmament. All the guns need to be collected. After
that, all the youths should go to school.” I listen and nod, thinking
about how a disarmament campaign led directly to violence here in Pibor, the
violence that Osman tells me cost his father his life, the violence that forced
so many of Zuagin’s fellow child soldiers into the arms of the Cobra
faction in the first place. I decide not to mention it.

Osman has his own simple solution: full employment. “To have
peace, they should give a job to everybody,” he says in a soft, raspy
voice. “If they gave work to everybody, everybody would be busy
and there would be no time for fighting.”

Like the rest of the boys, Peter looks younger than the age he gives, which
is 16. And like many of the others, it was abuse by the SPLA that, two
years earlier, led him to flee his home and join the Cobra faction. “They
were beating people. They even stole my clothes,” he tells me
as we sit in the minimal shade of a tree near the church in the ICC compound.
Life with the militia was tough: cooking, chores, bodyguard duties, combat.
Now, the bright-eyed youth says that he has free time and his life is so much
better. He was looking forward to school, too, but didn’t have
the requisite 20 South Sudanese pounds needed for tuition. It’s
the same story for Osman who longs for school, but says he lacks the funds
to attend.

“Getting all children in Pibor back to school is a priority and
services are slowly being reestablished after many years of under investment,”
UNICEF’s McKeever told me by email. “There are currently close
to 3,000 children enrolled in Pibor [and nearby] Gumuruk and Lekuangule
and one in three of the demobilized children from Pibor are in accelerated
learning programs.”

Veterans Day?

The Interim Care Center is a spartan facility by Western standards and creature
comforts are few, but these young Cobra faction veterans have it better than
many of their peers who find themselves hungry,
malnourished, displaced,
homeless,
and hopeless. “Life is very good here,” Osman told me.
The freedom to come and go as he pleases and wear civilian clothes looms large
for him. “Plus, I’m eating for free,” he adds.
When I ask if he ever wants to be a soldier again, he shoots me a disgusted
look, before cracking a big smile and laughing aloud. “No.
I don’t like it at all. The worst part was fighting.”

Zujian, who speaks some English, agrees. In a tiny voice that has yet
to crack, let alone deepen, he swears that life now is so much better than
when he carried a weapon and that he’s absolutely done with soldiering
forever. All the boys I talk to tell me the same – though it’s
no guarantee that some of them won’t end up back under arms in the years
to come. Above all, however, every one of them wants something more.
All are looking for some way out.

Peter bluntly requests that I take a couple of the boys back to the United
States so they can tell their stories in person. He strongly hints that
he would like to be one of them. In the meantime, he says, he will “pray
for peace.” Korok, it turns out, is praying too – for peace and
better leadership for the country. “Is there a possibility,”
he asks, “for the American people to set up schools, so the children
could go to class instead of becoming soldiers?”

“South Sudan needs development. It needs hospitals, not fighting,”
Zujian tells me with a thoughtful smile. True enough, but I wonder if
there is any chance of it. Recent, full-scalemilitary
offensives are wreaking
havoc, killing
and injuring civilians, and accountability is nearly nil. The government
derives more than 90%
of its revenue not from citizens to whom it must provide services and
transparency, but from foreign
oil firms. It is now also indebted to the Qatar
National Bank, to whom the future of the nation has been mortgaged.
Its military
has been consistently
implicated in mass atrocities, as has the rebel
force opposing it. Both continue to employ child soldiers.
The country sits atop the Fund for Peace’s 178-nation list of the world’s
most fragile nations, ranks exceptionally high in terms of poverty
and corruption,
and low when it comes to education,
infrastructure,
press freedom, and human
rights. It’s one of the worst
places on earth to be a mother
or a child.
Its economy
is in shambles
and nearly five million people are expected to face severe
food shortages in the months ahead. And given the fact that southern
Sudan has, for the better part of 60 years, been embroiled in war – a series
of conflicts that have upended, wrecked, or taken the lives of millions, sown
bad blood, and stoked the fires of vengeance – the future looks grim.

At the end of our interview, Zujian stares into my eyes, squinting as if
looking for something, and then begins interviewing me. What am I up
to, he wants to know. Why have I traveled all this way to the ICC to
talk to the other boys and him?

I try to explain how my country helped facilitate
the recruitment of child soldiers in his, despite international condemnation
of the practice and the fact one of our laws forbids it, as does South Sudanese
law. I say that people in America know little or nothing about the global
scourge of child soldiers. It’s important, I add, that they hear
what boys like him have to say.

I had come, I explain, to hear his story and I will do my best to tell it.
I can feel Zujian’s disappointment. Like a number of the children,
he clearly hoped for more from me – maybe even tangible assistance of some
sort. He manages to look skeptical and remain silent until we reach
the outer edge of awkward. Then, suddenly, he breaks into a wide grin
and gracefully lets me off the hook.

Clearly, U.S.
assistance and nation-building
efforts in South Sudan have had anything but the desired effects either for
Washington or South Sudan. No less clearly, President Obama’s
gamble that looking the other way when
it came to child soldiers would, in the long run, facilitate the end of their
use imploded in 2013 with devastating
results. Despite this, Zujian refuses to sour on the United States or
at least its citizens. Somehow, in spite of all the disappointments,
including me, he continues to have faith.

“I’m happy to have talked with you,” he says with a nod,
still smiling as we sit in the fading afternoon sun at this parched, uncertain
way station, a literal no man’s land located somewhere between war and
peace, youth and adulthood. “If the American people read about
us, maybe it will lead to something good.”

Nick Turse is the managing editor of TomDispatch.com and a fellow
at the Nation Institute. A 2014 Izzy Award and American
Book Awardwinner for his book Kill Anything That
Moves, he has reported from the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and Africa
and his pieces have appeared in the New York Times, the Los
Angeles Times, the Nation, and regularly
at TomDispatch. His latest book, Tomorrow’s
Battlefield: U.S. Proxy Wars and Secret Ops in Africa, has just been
published. Reporting for this article was made possible by the generous
support of Lannan Foundation.

[Note: In this piece, names have been changed to protect
the privacy of the children at the request of UNICEF.]